


Panic.

by orphan_account



Series: Fleeting [4]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alcoholism, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony can't clock out, not when Bruce is involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Panic.

It’s well after office hours, meaning it’s about twelve in the afternoon on a Wednesday and Tony’s already clocked out. Not that he actually, physically clocked out. He giggles at the thought of setting up a time card machine specifically for taking himself off hours, and drains the last of his scotch in his tumbler as he adjusts in his lounge chair and flips the channel. He reaches for the bottle but that’s empty, too, and he flips it up to tongue the last drops of it.

Through the blurred edges of the bottom of his bottle he sees a flash of Hulk green come up on the screen, and his scotch falls from his lips as he sits straight up. Footage of a rampaging Hulk pulling buildings apart like paper is definitely one thing that can bring piss drunk Tony to attention.  But it’s just a promotional commercial, another attempt at making the beast a cool, marketable superhero, and soon little kids with green gloves are running rampant on the grass yelling at each other. He scoffs and leans back in his chair again.

His phone lights up and rings Black Sabbath, and he looks at it in confusion for a long five seconds. No one is supposed to be able to reach his personal except for Pepper and Bruce, and neither of them are on speaking terms with him at the moment. And beyond that, the call is from a blocked number. Hesitantly, he reaches up to the coffee table to answer it.

“Stark. Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nick Fury, pleasant as always.

“Currently? Just finished this delicious bottle of scotch and wondering why the hell you have my encrypted personal number.” Even though his speech is a bit slurred, it’s mostly from physical hindrances; the second Fury spoke his mind started spinning, gears turning, piecing together.

“We have a situation.”

“Got that, somehow. Trying to figure out what you would need me for when you’ve got a demigod, two assassins, and a super-soldier on call.” It had to be hard to get his number; Fury had to want him specifically.

“SHIELD caught wind Banner isn’t in your tower any more. Where is he, Stark?” Tony’s stomach drops to his knees. His eyes dart everywhere around the room as he tries to think of things to cover Bruce’s tail, pull the blame to him.

“I’m not his keeper!” Getting angry during a panic is at least believable. “So how should I know? He just up and left. I thought you told the Council you weren’t tracking his whereabouts, or was that bullshit too?” He may not be sober enough to walk without falling over but he sure as hell wants to know more about this Banner situation.

“That’s right, SHIELD isn’t. You, however, are. We’ve intercepted your video feed with Bruce, Tony. Says you know exactly where he is. Feed cut out before we could trace it.”

Tony thanks God-or-something that some part of his security system works and stews this over for a second, chews on his lip until he pulls a piece of ragged skin from it. He pulls his mouth in a sour grimace, because he has to play the part. “What about it? Bruce hasn’t talked to me in weeks.” Not an exaggeration. To bluff he needs something at least a little like the truth.

“He went Hulk, Tony.” Tony feels all the blood drain from his flushed face. “Crossed some national borders, caused some mayhem. Mostly to trees, but farmers got scared and called him in. Last sighting was right outside of Rio de Janiero. He’s endangering lives just being there.” Tony couldn’t believe it. Bruce is so careful, had him so under control—it had to be his own fault. Guilt pounds behind his temples. Fury probably has a bloodhound scent for emotions, because he says next, “So give us reliable GPS coordinates so we’re not hacking rainforest blind with machetes, or so help me God I will call the Hulkbusters in to find him.” The guilt twists like a spike in his addled brain.

Before he has too long to think about it he clicks the call off, throws his phone in his side table drawer. He stares at the TV over his steepled fingers for .5 seconds. “JARVIS, get Mark VII ready. And set all wireless encryption levels to extreme.”

“Sir, your blood alcohol level is—“

“I don’t care. Get it ready.”


End file.
